


Newton's Law

by Innibis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, M/M, reasonable ron, revelations that could have gone better, sulky harry, the weight of expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innibis/pseuds/Innibis
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction





	Newton's Law

**Author's Note:**

> Putting the blame squarely on recent conversations with other old school shippers that made me want to possibly start writing again after 72 years off, but in the meantime I'm moving stuff over from LJ. For posterity I guess? It was a miracle I remembered that account’s password. . .
> 
> I think the old me was harsh to the girls in this one, and OOC with Ginny, and the patriarchy snuck through in ways I do not appreciate on re-read, but posting anyway. Also my grammar is questionable.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

The laws of physics aren’t generally acknowledged in the wizarding world. Why should they be, when they can be defied with the flick of a wand? Yet Harry and Ron were facing their first Christmas together on the receiving end of some definite reaction. Although, as Hermione had coldly pointed out to Harry, it is all relative. She had not pointed that fact out to Ron who had, at the time, been lying unconscious at St Mungo’s, the victim of a nasty combination of hexes from Ginny and Hermione. 

Harry had been fortunate in this regard, at least in terms of spell selection. As Hermione’s crazed canaries bore down on him with malice in their beady little eyes, the bat bogies had erupted from his nose. The winged bogies had taken immediate offense to the birds converging on their territory, and what ensued was a bizarre, mid-air rumble that left all witnesses gaping in awed disbelief until Ron had unceremoniously collapsed on the floor. Harry had grabbed his friend and apparated straight to the hospital, leaving the girls in a maelstrom of slimy feathers.

Clearly, the conversation had not gone well, although, as Ron mused to Harry in retrospect, how well could it possibly have gone? Harry was not as inclined to be lenient. He would be damned before he was going to apologize for not making a lifelong commitment to a girl whose supposed claim on him was that he had enjoyed kissing her for a few weeks when he was sixteen. 

“To be fair,” Ron said, digging harder into the back of Harry’s neck with his strong fingers, “it was more than that. For you too, mate.” 

Harry was sitting on the floor of their living room, the air warm from the crackling fire, leaning back onto Ron’s legs and into his hands. It was Christmas Eve and it should have been perfect; romantic even. “Since when are you fair?” Harry demanded, a little petulantly. 

Ron’s hands paused, considering. “Dunno.” He decided, resuming his kneading motions. “Could be the potions are making me sensitive as well as sleepy.” Ron was on several potions for the next ten days to counteract the spell mixing. The reminder of this did not help Harry relax.

“Hermione.” He spat out. “What was she thinking? I didn’t hex her for kissing you. How come we have to be understanding? Fuck ‘em.”

“You don’t mean that, Harry.” Ron said, planting a kiss on the top of his head before standing up. Harry slumped against the front of the chair and scowled at his friend as Ron moved to sit on the floor next to him and then flopped over, head first, into Harry’s lap. The potions were keeping this encounter from being anything more exciting for Harry than serving as Ron’s pillow. The potions were pissing Harry off.

Ron opened one blue eye, grabbed Harry’s hand and put it on his head, then shut it again and hummed with contentment when Harry started carding his fingers through the silky red. Harry smiled. Being a Ron pillow wasn’t so bad after all. Hermione didn’t get to be a Ron pillow. He scowled again. 

“No, Harry replied shortly, “I don’t mean that.” But anger was a luxury that he could afford, and Harry was planning on wallowing a bit longer before trying to smooth things over with the girls at dinner the following day.

Because really, you don’t spend years of your life loving someone as much as Harry and Hermione and Ron loved each other without knowing them. Harry knew that, in the end, the trio would be fine. He also knew that the Weasleys were, for all of their quarrels, a tightly knit family. The combination of Percy’s temporary estrangement and Fred’s tragic death had left them wise to the fact that time is not unlimited, even for wizards, to patch up differences. Ginny, despite her anger, had kissed her prone brother’s cheek before storming out of the hospital room, pausing only long enough to pat Harry on the shoulder and then cuff the back of his head. After all, Harry was family too.

So, there was Ron with his head in Harry’s lap, and there was Harry with his hands in Ron’s hair. Evil was defeated, Christmas was tomorrow and they had just come out, come clean, to their dear friend and sister. Dear Friend and Sister had apparently been harboring hopes that, despite false starts and no real effort, the fairy tale would be waiting for them as they stepped off the Hogwarts Express; waiting for them in the form of Harry and Ron. Sheltered by Hogwarts, Hermione and Ginny hadn’t yet come to the realization that Ron and Harry had within weeks of the girls leaving for school; things change and rarely in ways anyone anticipates.

* * * 

The remaining time in the summer after the war had been surreal and difficult. They had buried friends, family and strangers, rebuilt homes and businesses and restructured the government. Nothing and no one had been left untouched by Voldemort’s rise and subsequent fall, especially Harry.

For Harry had been crowned The Savior, and there was nowhere that he could escape that stigma. Hermione said that it would pass, that the community needed Harry to play The Boy Who Lived just a little longer in order to provide a symbol to look to as they went through the heart and back-breaking labor of rebuilding their society. So, Harry had kept his mouth shut and his wand polished. He had smiled obligingly and attended banquets and ribbon cuttings and memorials until he felt like a spectator in his own life. He was an owl flying from house to house bearing a message of hope, delivering, but never receiving.

Ron and Hermione had been caught in that same light to a certain extent. Well, Ron had at any rate, as Hermione had gone to Australia to recover her parents almost immediately following Fred’s funeral at her best friends’ urging. With Harry’s family long dead and Ron’s freshly bleeding, restoring the Grangers to each other was important. They wanted Hermione to be able to hug her healthy and whole parents again. To reestablish her own home.

Harry had been anxious to do something, build something, fight someone; instead he was cosseted and honored and pet like some delicate little prince.  Like some Malfoy. The same people who had left the fate of the world in the hands of three teenagers now fussed over him as if he couldn’t wipe his own arse. In the peculiar isolation that only the truly worshipped experience, Harry had pulled further into himself. Soon he hardly spoke at all, though no one had really noticed, except for Ron and Ginny and, to a certain extent, Molly Weasley. The only time that Harry had felt remotely whole that summer was when he had been alone with Ron. Ron had reveled in the undivided attention of Harry, and Harry in the peace of no expectations from Ron. They hadn't spoken much during those times.

Ginny had been another story altogether. She had been nothing but expectations. She had been at his elbow, by his side, his escort to various occasions and a constant source of confusion. Harry still thought that Ginny was very pretty and he liked her immensely, but he was so far removed from her. Their experiences were so different, and he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. He didn’t want to explain in order to get her to the point of understanding. It had just been easier to sit quietly with someone who already understood, who had been through it all from House Sorting to Voldemort Vanquishing, from Sirius’s absolution to Pettigrew’s death. Ron just knew. So, through no fault of Ginny’s own, Harry found her good intentions exhausting. They hadn’t kissed since his seventeenth birthday.

Hermione had come back with her parents in time to attend her seventh year at Hogwarts with Ginny. To her displeasure, Ron had decided that he was not going back with her. Harry had already made his intentions more than clear when, in a fit of nervous energy brought on by one too many parties, and bordering on hysteria, he had burst into Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office, brandishing his sparking wand, and demanded that he be allowed to Do Something. Shacklebolt, to his immense credit, had greeted Harry, poured him a cup of tea and had calmly explained to him what he could expect from his first few weeks as an Auror trainee, all the while ignoring the occasional agitated wand emission.

When Harry had told Ron that he would be starting as an Auror and how soon this was going to occur (two days before he was to turn eighteen) Ron had just stared at him for a few seconds and then walked away into the gloaming. Ron hadn’t come back to their Cannon’s covered room that night, and Harry had stared at the ceiling in the dark. He couldn’t sleep anymore without Ron near him.

When Harry had gone to breakfast in the morning, cautiously peeking into the kitchen first, he had found Ron there, every gloriously freckled inch of him, and he had felt his stomach settle and his reality realign as Ron shot him a sheepish smile and pulled out the chair next to his.

“Better start eating mate. I don’t expect that Shacklebolt will be too impressed with a trainee who can be picked up and whirled around like a Burrow garden gnome.” The fight that wasn’t a fight was over, and Ron had stood firmly by Harry’s side as Molly and Ginny fought against his decision vehemently and with much slamming of doors.

The day Harry had started training, Ron began working at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. When Harry had protested, telling Ron that he should start training too, just like they had planned, Ron had looked at him with bland curiosity. “So, you do remember that we had planned to do that together then?”

“Course,” Harry had said stoutly, “I thought that you would start with me. I know it’s a little early, but -”

“Harry,” Ron interrupted, “I understand why you need to start straight away, and I will become an Auror. Can’t let you run off on your own into the face of danger without me to keep you safe, now can I? But,” he continued “I can’t leave George to reopen the shop on his own. I know he wants to start it up again, but just doesn’t have the heart for it. I need to help my brother for a bit; for a year. Just to get him on his feet. It’s the best I can do for him. I can’t bring Fred back, but I can help George keep young delinquents in Puking Pastilles.”

Ron and George had worked in the store, Hermione and Ginny went back to school and Harry had begun to feel human again as he studied and dueled and ran laps and practiced hand-to-hand combat. Life went on.

George had moved back to the Burrow, which seemed to help both him and Mrs. Weasley, leaving the flat above Wheezes empty. Ron and Harry had moved in, reveling in enough freedom to drink firewhisky all night if they so chose, but enough Molly Weasley to make sure they ate well and often. For the first time since sometime in fourth year, Harry had felt light. The world was a beautiful and terrible thing, frightening in it’s potential, but Ron was by his side, evil had been forced to retreat once more, and Harry had even survived to enjoy the fruits of his labor with the knowledge that, beyond the veil lay more worlds full of infinite possibilities. Harry thought that this might be called healing. 

* * *

The only mar on Ron and Harry’s newly found and cautiously enjoyed happiness had been Hermione and Ginny. Hermione had come home with her parents and then had had barely enough time to settle them in before catching the train back to school. Harry had missed her and was sorry that she was going to be so far away, but it was only a year. Ron and Hermione had been still in the sort of together phase. After that kiss during the battle of Hogwarts, Harry had thought they were a sure thing. He had felt a little weak with that knowledge, happy for them, of course, but sad to see Ron on his way to a place he couldn’t follow. But then nothing had happened. There had been too much going on, and then she was gone again.

Harry had asked Ron about it, tentatively. Ron had shrugged, looking thoughtful. “Don’t know. Don’t know that I’m worried about it right now. We’re only eighteen. What about you?” he had countered “What about Ginny?”

“Same as you I guess. Plenty of time, and all that. Gin’s got two years left of school and, well – just - I don’t know.”

 “Yeah,” Ron had said broodingly.

 “Yeah,” had answered Harry helplessly.

When the owls had started arriving from the girls, Harry found that, while Hermione wrote letters to Ron that he would let Harry read, Harry would not share Ginny’s letters with Ron. They were. . . soppy, which had come as a complete surprise coming from Ginny. She wrote of never before mentioned feelings and futures and, this was the worst, Harry’s bravery. His bravery? Harry had read, startled. What kind of a thing was that to write about? He wanted to hear about the new DADA professor and how the Quidditch team looked this year and what new hat Luna was wearing, he didn’t want to hear about his bravery.

Hermione, on the other hand, hadn’t really written to Ron about much other than how her lessons were going, her Head Girl duties, and to be sure to take care of Harry, and how was Harry feeling, and “Ronald Weasley you make sure you are studying along with Harry to get ahead for next year.” 

“They’re not very personal,” Harry had said, looking up from Hermione’s latest installment.

“They are very Hermione, though,” Ron had pointed out gloomily.

So as Ginny had plied more and more attention on Harry (He nearly got an owl every day), Hermione wrote to Ron as she would write to anyone else: warm, informative, on a schedule and with enough formality to keep even Ron’s hopeful hormones firmly in their place from hundreds of miles away.

In the meantime, Harry and Ron had established a new rhythm with just each other. It had always been, to a certain extent, the two of them against Hermione’s homework planner, so it was no effort at all, especially as Kreacher had insisted upon continuing to take care of Master Harry. The two friends were clean, dry and fed, and if Ron had felt a little less than happy working in a store while Harry learned to do cool things like tie a Death Eater’s legs into a floppy, flesh-colored bow, he had only grumbled a little into his pumpkin juice. And if Harry had been a little less than happy to find himself checking out Ron’s arse as he bent over to pick up his trainers, or smiling a little dizzily when Ron rubbed his cheek against Pig’s soft little body in greeting, he had only wanked a little in the shower. 

The night that had changed everything, Ron and Harry had been mostly drunk. Harry had begun drinking soon after he got home that Friday. Precisely seven seconds after he had read Ginny’s letter. This one had gone too far – contemplating a future with offspring in it, living next door to Hermione and Ron and their children, going to the bloody Hogwarts Express with the kids - Harry had wondered if Hermione was aware of this plan. He had stared at the letter in disbelief as he swayed slightly on the spot. He had been steadily working his way through the flat’s alcohol supply. Good thing they had a Never-Ending Bar Stocker (a gift that involved an open tab at the local pub and kept the liquor bottles at home full – Harry was not sure how it worked, only that he was a huge fan). As he had head over to the bar again, still clutching the letter, Ron had climbed the stairs.

“Bad day?” he asked. 

“Catch up,” Harry had replied, pouring whiskies. He downed one and Ron, after a slight hesitation, downed the other two. Had Harry been in his right mind, he would never have thrust Ginny’s letter into her brother’s hands and challenged “Tell me your sister isn’t barking.”

Ron had looked surprised, having never read any of Gin’s letters to Harry before, but he had obligingly sat down on the couch, and removed one shoe at a time as he read. Harry had poured another whiskey and grabbed two butterbeers. He had handed Ron the glass just as his friend had looked up, jaw hanging open in disbelief. Ron had wordlessly downed it then reached for the beer as he had sat back and stared at Harry.

“Do you – “Ron started, “does she – Will I -, Just what the bloody hell is this, exactly?” he finished weakly.

“This,” said Harry, slumping next to Ron on the couch “is your sister, planning our lives.”

“She’s pretty specific, Harry,” Ron had said slowly staring back at the letter “is this something you two have, er - discussed?”

“Never,” Harry stated, adamantly. “I mean she’s been a total sap all year but-” and Harry had stopped. “Ron, please let me talk to you about this. I know she’s your sister, but I don’t know what to do and I’m not good at this. Well, neither are you, but we can try to, I dunno, figure it out?” Harry had asked pleadingly and fixed his eyes on Ron’s.

“’Kay.” Ron had nodded after hesitating a brief second, “but let’s call her something else, like we did with Snuffles.”

Harry had stared, “Ron. We called Sirius that to keep him safe.”

“Well yeah,” Ron said “We’ll call Ginny something else to keep me from going bloody mad. It’s a safety issue, trust me.”

Harry had continued to stare at Ron, but Ron hadn’t blinked. “Uh, okay, I guess. What do you want to call her?”

“Chastity. You look like you’d date a girl named Chastity,” Ron had answered promptly.

Harry had been a bit put out, “Why would I date a girl named Chastity?

“Because clearly,” Ron had glared at Harry “You would never date a girl who would sleep with her brother’s friend when she is fifteen years old; or ever at all, for that matter. At least not until she is married and/or thirty-five.”

“And/or?” Harry had tried not to laugh because he did still want to talk to Ron, and he had been pretty sure that the negotiation was nearly at an end.

“Yes.” Ron had nodded “Chastity is incredibly shy and might not be ready to take things further until she has been married a few years first. Got it?”

“Okay,” Harry had nodded in return “Can I talk about Chastity now, then?”

“I’m all ears, mate.” Ron had shifted to get more comfortable.

And so the whole tale had come out, how Harry didn’t have those kind of feelings for Ginny – Charity - Chastity anymore, even though he felt he should. That he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her, but she seemed to have joined the Harry Potter Fan Club and he didn’t want that kind of attention and pressure, and he didn’t want to date her anymore and had said nothing to the contrary, which made the letters all that more bewildering.

Ron had sipped his beer “Gi – I mean Chastity, has always been in your fan club. She knows you, but there has always been an element of hero worship in the relationship. She’s had a crush on you her entire life. Plus you are Harry Fucking Potter, so that’s, you know, cool or something. You’re just going to have to tell her straight off that you aren’t interested. Or maybe tell her that you are concentrating on your career right now.”

It had all sounded very reasonable to Harry, so he had decided to try to help Ron. “Would you like to talk about your relationship with Virtue now?”

“Virtue?” Ron had wrinkled his nose, slurring a little “’S not even a real name, ‘Arry. Why would I – Oh!” he shouted, “You mean Hermione!”

“Yeah. Are you two okay?”

“Dunno mate. Opposite problem from you and Chastity, s’pose. She treats me like always. Almost like part of her to-do list. And not in a good way!” he finished hastily when Harry had glared at him.

“’S funny.” Harry had leaned a little drunkenly against Ron.

“What?”

“Chastity gives me too much attention, and Virtue gives you not enough. Reckon we better switch girlfriends.”

“Harry!” Ron had howled.

“Right, you’re right,” Harry had corrected “They’re not even our girlfriends. Not really. So why are we getting so upset about it?”

“Harry!” Ron had growled, “We are not switching non-girlfriends. Ginny, is not going to write to me about our future children.”

Harry had blinked at that “S’rry. Forgot.”

“S’ alright” Ron had conceded. They had then proceeded to talk about Quidditch, Harry’s training and the store. The flow of alcohol had been steady, though not enough to make them completely incapacitated. At some point, Ron had rolled down onto the floor to get closer to the fire. Harry had followed a few minutes later and couched his head on Ron’s stomach until Ron had started laughing a little wildly.

“Whatsa matter?” Harry had demanded.

“How many children do you suppose you’d have with Ginny?” Ron had asked.

Harry had rolled off him and onto an elbow to look down at Ron, warm and bright in the fire, grinning up at Harry with happy blue eyes. He decided to play along, if only to keep that smile directed at him “I think she said three.”

“Three? Well let’s name them then,” Ron had beamed, “C’mon, just for fun. Give you something to write to Ginny about.”

Harry had tried to look disgusted, but only managed a weak expression of befuddlement “You’re like a girl, naming kids.”

“Nu uh.” Ron had shaken his shaggy head and peered earnestly up into Harry’s eyes “’’S only girly if I name my own kids. I can name yours.”

“’kay.” Harry nodded, that made sense “go ‘head.”

“Well, you and Ginny are sentimental, see, so your gonna have a boy named James and a girl named Lilly,” Ron stated positively.

Harry had tried to be offended that Ron thought that it was a joke to name his children after his dead parents but decided that he was drunk instead of upset. “’S not funny. I might name my kids after Mum and Dad, even if they aren’t going to be Ginny’s.”

“Right.” Ron beamed “Sentimental. And now, something scarring for your third. How ‘bout Fred Dobby? Or Sirius Albus?” Ron had started actually wheezing in mirth. 

Harry hadn’t quite known what to do. They had never joked about the war and the dead. Not ever. It was wrong. It was. . . strangely freeing. And Harry had begun to laugh too. 

Ron continued, “Or Nymphadora Mad-Eye – No! Mad Eye Remus! How about Collin Severus?” Ron had then sat bolt right up, just missing cracking skulls with Harry. “I’ve got it!’ he yelled “It’s genius! Albus Severus.” And then he had howled with laughter, and Harry had too. 

Helplessly, reluctantly and with a twinge in his heart, he had laughed, bringing those dear souls back to the warmth of fond memory and away from the gaping cold of mourning. They would always be loved and missed, well, maybe not Snape, but certainly admired, they would all be admired. In the flickering of the fire, Harry and Ron had moved on.

They had moved on from a lot of things that night, for as they had quieted, Harry had looked into Ron’s eyes, so close to his own, and leaned in and kissed him. And Ron had kissed him right back, without a trace of hesitation, leaning into Harry’s determination as Harry leant into Ron’s passion. That kiss was many things, confirmation and comfort and joy and just a hint of inevitable, but what it had not been was the beginning of a wild sex fest. Not that they hadn’t been up for it, figuratively and otherwise, not that they would have been technically cheating on anyone. But Harry had been down this road with Ron before, strictly observationally of course. Had observed it in great detail, point of fact, and neither had been up for hurting either girl. They had agreed that there would be no actual consummation until they talked to Hermione and Ginny. And then, well, and then they could do what they damn well pleased.

From that night on though, they slept in one bed. Sharing warmth and love and kisses so dizzying that they were mad with want. It had almost become a game, to push each other just to the point of no return. And as it is in all great challenges and quests, they had to go through the most grueling part, to face the final obstacle, before they could fully have each other. 

And so, they had picked up Hermione and Ginny from Platform 9 and ¾ when they had come home for the holiday and had brought the girls over to their flat and told them the truth. And Hermione and Ginny had hexed the snot out of them (well, out of Harry) and Ron had gone to St. Mingo’s and now had to take potions which meant Harry couldn’t shag him for another ten days without feeling like he was taking advantage of an invalid. 

Which left them here; in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, Ron dozing lightly on Harry’s lap, with tentative and slightly aching apologies in a letter lying on the kitchen table. Just Harry and Ron sharing the silence. 

They’d go to the Burrow tomorrow for Christmas and tell the rest of the family. Harry was pretty sure that Ginny had already mentioned it, judging from the extra-large treacle tart that Mrs. Weasley had sent out of the blue along with a strident reminder to be at the Burrow first thing in the morning, but it was the right thing to do. Harry thought that they might invite the girls to dinner in a couple days’ time. To a public place with plenty of witnesses of course.

Ron stirred in Harry’s lap “Ready for bed, love?” Harry asked, smiling down at him, all real irritation gone in the knowledge that he and Ron were free to be together without guilt now, that they’d still share a bed tonight, that Mrs. Weasley had as good as given them her blessing and that Ginny and Hermione were already coming around, so there was no real problem. There was nothing that had been said or done that could not be forgiven.

Ron nodded, stretching sleepily and lifted himself up. His mouth unerringly found Harry’s in a slow sweet kiss that spoke more of promise than lust.

They stumbled into the bedroom and flopped into the bed, undressing while lying down, wriggling as they pulled articles of clothing off. Ron, because he was too tired to stand, and Harry because if Ron was doing it, then Harry would too. And then they were there, in the closest place to true peace that Harry had found in this world, with Ron’s head on his shoulder and Ron’s limbs wrapped over him and under him, surrounding Harry in a tangle of Weasley. And this, Harry thought as he drifted off to sleep, this might be what it feels like when all things are equal, no pull, no push, no action or reaction, just this. Just Harry and Ron. Just home.


End file.
